


Of Apples and Giving In to Autumn Splendor

by Papillonae



Series: Hetaween 2020 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Americana, Apples, Autumn, Existentialism, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: First person. Lithuania thinks too much about the complexities of existing. America has the solution.Written for the Hetaween 2020 Event Day 1: Autumn, Red Apples, Hot Chocolate.
Relationships: America/Lithuania (Hetalia)
Series: Hetaween 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978132
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Of Apples and Giving In to Autumn Splendor

There is a chill in the early morning air that stirs me from sleep. I shrug the comforter and the sheets off of my shoulders. Outside, the leaves are scattered about the yard amidst the still-green grass, in the crevasses of the stone wall borders in the woods across the way in the woods, still fluttering down from the maples and the oaks, the birches and the hickories – all of them brilliant hues of red, orange, and gold. October has an early chill this year, and a small feathering of frost can be seen in the corner of the window. Inside, it’s warm and cozy. In a way, it feels nostalgic.

I stretch, and I feel him beginning to stir beside me. The morning is cold, and the first rays of sunlight are peeking through the blinds. He gathers up the rest of the comforter I cast aside and wraps himself up in it. I hear him breathe, very deeply, and I watch the covers rise and fall gently as he does. I spy the yellow tufts of his hair peeking out from underneath them, that cowlick that never seems to stay tame no matter how many times it’s brushed or gelled down. The sight is so irresistible; I can’t help but comb at his hair with my fingers. He makes a soft, satisfied noise, and rolls over until his head is in my lap.

It wasn’t until recently that he had requested me to share his bed. Up until now, my employment here had only been professional, but somewhere along the line, it turned out like this. America isn’t the kind for formalities. He’s a clap of a hand on your shoulder, a broad laughter, a wind in your hair and the sun in your eyes kind of person. There is always something golden and shining about him. At first, I found it hard to meet his eyes or match his smile. But somewhere along the way, I found myself drawn again and again to see him in the middle of his work, or out in the gardens.

He radiates a confidence one might only ever get to feel in the comfort of their home. On that one night he had asked for my company, he confided in me that he gets terrified from time to time.

He’s been fiercely and unapologetically independent. But he needed me then. He needs me now.

He’s young.

 _Oh_ , he’s still so young.

I began to lose track of many times have I come to spend the night with him, noticed his sleeping face, and thought to myself about the passage of time. We have lived centuries: I, myself, have lived many more than he has. All I have to my name are years of war, of strife, of sickness and of conquest. It’s hard to imagine myself here, in bed, on a chilly autumn morning, and feeling a strange sense of calm.

America clings to me the way a newborn clings to his mother, hands balled into fists and pressed close to his mouth as I hold him in the quiet autumn morning. He cranes into my touch as I continue to play with his hair. I hum a soft melody and comb his bangs to one side.

A nation has autonomy, but as an _individual_ \-- do we really? It is a strange existence we lead, to be both nation and something else that is human, almost. Almost, if not for what we endure. Almost, if the scars weren’t directly from the atrocities of man united under other nations. Are we really, truly, autonomous when we willingly hurt one another in this way; are we only a mouthpiece for the common man? How to we reconcile this existence we have where we are both the idea and the physical?

“You’re doing it again.”

My thoughts interrupted, I look down at my lap. America is smiling up at me, knowingly.

“Doing what again?”

“Overthinking.”

He sits up and pulls me close. Impossibly warm. The way he holds me, one hand cupping the back of my head and the other pressed against the small of my back, makes me feel precious. A steady embrace. It’s not something I’m used to – I hadn’t been held like this in a long time. A part of me wants nothing more than to melt into his arms, but I can’t bring myself to do so.

“Relax,” he instructs me. I feel the heat of his breath on my ear, and my skin prickles.

We sit like this, our bodies pressed together, and knowing America, he could hold me here for hours until I gave in. I try my best to match his breathing in an effort to relax my shoulders. It proves to be an almost impossible feat. He takes such deep breaths, and I can hardly breathe. But as I focus more and more on the rise and fall, we soon fall in sync.

He draws back and looks at me. In the dimness of the bedroom where the sun is barely shining through, I can see how the light shines across his face in bright little bars. He looks concerned.

“What’s on your mind?”

Where would I even begin?

“America–”

“I told you, you can call me Al if you want.”

I stumble into it. “—Okay, Al… I was just thinking about what we are.”

He looks as if he’d been kicked.

“I meant – as us being nations, and how we’re seemingly immortal, of course, is what I meant to say,” I quickly add, repeating myself in my haste. Why did I add that so quickly? Why did his reaction warrant mine?

“Oh.” America seems relieved. To my surprise he shrugs it off, stretches his arms in the air as he thinks of a response. “Well… after a while, I stopped thinking about things like immortality and being a nation. It’s a hot mess to think about. So I don’t.”

“But surely you think about your humanity, right? And what that means when we also have this role to play?”

America frowns, concerned. “Hey, Lith. Let me ask you something.”

“Hm?”

“Instead of trying to understand what you are, why can’t you give yourself permission to just _be_?”

It was not the response I was expecting, and the sincerity of it takes me back a little.

“Look, when you’re here with me, you don’t have to be your history or your people or… whatever you think makes you who you are. You don’t have to choose between being Lithuania or Toris. You can just _be_ … And I’d like that, I think. For you to just exist here, for as long as you’d like.”

He trails off and scratches at his head, turning his attention to the sheets bunched up in my hands. I could have misheard the intent behind those words. It may have been a trick of the light. But something about his expression just then seemed… hopeful? Nervous?

I hadn’t considered any of this.

When he looks back up at me, his hair is even more of a mess. I can’t help but laugh.

“There we go,” he says, and he smiles.

* * *

I consider it again, when we go to the apple orchard later that afternoon.

The sunlight filters through the autumn leaves, dappling his freckled cheeks and his corn-yellow hair with color as we walk beneath the trees. He goes out of his way to walk over the crunchiest leaves, ever-so slightly stepping off the path toward a small pile beginning to brown and curl inward.

We walk together with our bags heavy and full of apples – Cortlands and Honey Crisps, Jonagolds and Empires. As we walk under a clear sky, we observe the families who have also come to the orchard: mothers posing their children in the pumpkin patches on hay bales and barrels for photos; couples who lock fingers as they aimlessly wander through the orchards in search of a quieter place; children excitedly stuffing their faces with donuts and guzzling apple cider at the gift shop.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him with a red apple in his hand, his eyes fixed hungrily on it.

“Don’t you dare.”

America looks over at me and smiles sweetly. It never fails to catch me off guard, the brilliant blue of his stare. “Pleeease? Just one? We have _plenty_ more apples for pie.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

Satisfied, he turns back to the apple and sinks his teeth into it. The crunch of it is incredible, and apple juice dribbles down his chin.

He is totally in his element wearing a bright red flannel shirt and eating apples in an apple orchard. I can only imagine how America would look here in the early autumn, when the weather is still warm, dressed in flowing cottons and jeans rolled up past his ankles. I can see him now, wandering barefoot up into a tall tree and eating apples at his leisure without a care in the world.

There is a wildness about him in this season that is unquestionably charming. Never had I wanted to give in to it myself this much, that carefree wild abandon that comes so naturally to him.

I watch him wipe his chin with his hand, and he gives me that one particular look: an impish smirk, a dare to follow. I feel my face heat. He lightly jogs further into the orchard, laughing and looking over his shoulder at me expectantly.

It’s hard to resist. I want so badly to chase him through the orchard. I want to pursue him until we tumble downhill in laughter, the fiery colors of the trees out in the distant fields and forests blurring together… our bodies tangled, limbs awkward as we right ourselves, only to be pulled back down to the Earth… our lips sticky with the taste of apples and of each other…

This morning, I would have restrained myself.

To my surprise, I find my footsteps lighter… and where I was walking toward him before, I find myself running. Sprinting. He gives chase, and I happily follow, wind in my hair, sun in my eyes.

He makes me want to forget the complexity of our existence – and for just one autumn day in the apple orchard, I do.


End file.
